


Settle. Stop. Sleep.

by Lenore



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Goblins, M/M, Napping, Protectiveness, Schmoop, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Goblins are trying to eat Stiles. Derek thinks he needs a nap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settle. Stop. Sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my [Holiday Prompt-a-Palooza](http://scribblinlenore.livejournal.com/588754.html). This is for [](http://celli.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://celli.dreamwidth.org/)**celli** who requested: Teen Wolf, Derek/Stiles, napping.

"It's getting kind of old. I'm just saying."

"Yes, you mentioned that one or twice." _Or at least fourteen times in the past two hours_. Derek communicates this last bit with a pointed look.

Stiles lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "Yeah, well, I think it bears repeating. You know, _when goblins are trying to eat me_." He blinks for a moment as if he can't believe the words that just came out his mouth, and then there's some rather spastic hand-flapping. "Oh my God, how is this my life? It's bad enough that goblins actually exist. Why do they think I'm tasty? Why, Derek, why?"

It's a rhetorical question since they have figured out this much at least. There's an archaic spell in goblin magical lore that's rumored to give the spellcaster the ability to conjure gold out of air—probably more legend than fact—but a horde of goblins descended on Beacon Hills three days ago, vying with each other for the spell's key ingredient. Unfortunately, that ingredient is the blood of a human member of a werewolf pack.

Derek turns the page of the book that Deaton loaned them, frowning. It includes an in-depth history of goblin politics, an inventory of goblin magical powers, and even a few favorite goblin recipes. But there's not a single word about how to kill goblins. This doesn't seem like a very good sign.

"Why is there no mention of goblins in Peter's database? What good is he to me? None. Whatsoever. At all." Derek has heard this diatribe before as well. "If only we had an elven-made sword. But of course we don't, because elves _don't_ actually exist. There's bitterness here. I'm not going to lie."

"Focus," Derek orders in the _you will do as I say_ tone he takes with his betas. Not that this ever works on Stiles.

"Yeah, yeah." Stiles hunches over his laptop, blinking mole-like at the screen and rubbing wearily at the back of his neck.

This makes Derek give him a closer look. How did he not notice before that Stiles is about three seconds away from falling off his chair in sheer exhaustion? There are dark circles on top of top circles under his eyes, and he smells like old coffee and too many days without a shower and the sour scent of a body pushed to its limits.

It has been a research marathon since goblins tried (and thankfully failed) to hijack Stiles as he was driving home from lacrosse practice. He doesn't have the benefit of werewolf stamina. So it's a testament to his determination—and quite possibly his ADD—that he's still conscious after thirty-six straight hours of staring at dusty books and computer screens.

"You need a break."

Stiles shakes his head. "The only thing I need is to solve this thing, so I can leave here without goblins eating me. Not that I don't appreciate the hospitality and the lovely charred ambiance, but there's only so long my dad is going to buy that I'm sleeping over at Scott's because he's mooning over Allison and needs an intervention."

"Clearly, he's never seen Scott moon over Allison." Because that intervention could take weeks.

Stiles acts as if he didn't hear this. "And, hey, I'm awesome and everything, but you don't exactly strike me as a guy who enjoys sharing his space. Although as roommates go, you could definitely do worse. Consideration, that's my middle name. Stiles 'Consideration' Stilinski. That's me. Have you found the toilet seat left up even once? No. Because I'm consid—hm. You're a dude, so is putting the toilet seat down actually rude?" He blinks, his expression going blank. "What was I saying?"

"Do you even know what you're reading anymore?"

"It's—something in Latin." Stiles leans in closer to the screen, a crinkle between his eyebrows. "Okay, English. That's kind of disappointing, actually. I thought I'd suddenly gotten really, really good at dead languages."

"You're useless if you can't think straight." Derek means it to sound harsh, but it comes out with a coaxing note that is just disturbing. He takes a moment to miss the good old days when he dealt with Stiles by throwing him up against the nearest wall. Things were simpler then.

"I'm fine," Stiles insists. "Maybe just a little more coffee—"

This ends in a squawk as Derek scoops Stiles up, takes the stairs two at a time and dumps him onto the mattress in his room. Derek's always been more of a doer than a talker.

Stiles glares up at him, eyes bright from the lack of sleep and the fact that he's totally pissed off. "What have we said about manhandling? Bad wolf!"

"You need a nap."

"No, I don't. What I need is—" He starts to get up.

Derek pushes him back down. "Settle."

Stiles blinks at him. "Okay, you get that I'm not your beta or your dog, right? If your next command is 'heel', we're going to have a serious talk."

"You're sharper when you're rested. We need you at your best." He does the menacing smile thing, a flash of red eyes and a little fang showing. "And you're not leaving this room until you've had a nap, so you should get on that."

"Is that supposed to scare me? Because, yeah, no, that ship has totally sailed by now." Stiles lets out his breath and flops back against the mattress. "But fine. Have it your way. I'll be right here. Sleeping."

His heart skips and skitters, the familiar rhythm of lying. Derek shoves him over and stretches out, putting himself between Stiles and the door.

Stiles stares at him. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure you do what I tell you."

"I really hate that werewolf polygraph thing. Just so you know."

But he does curl up on his side and stop fidgeting, as if he's actually going to try to sleep. This lasts about three seconds. Then a fresh wave of fear-smell comes off him and his heart starts to rev again as if his brain just won't shut off.

"Stop."

"What?"

"You know what." Derek flings an arm across his waist and draws him closer. He says more quietly, "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

There's a pause, and then Stiles relaxes. "Yeah. Okay."

His easy trust warms something in Derek—something that's been frozen through for a long time. It also makes him want to shake Stiles really hard and yell at him not to be an idiot.

There's a long, slow puff of breath, and then Stiles sags, a warm weight against Derek's side, his head lolling onto Derek's shoulder. _3, 2, 1_ , Derek counts down in his head. The spike in Stiles's heart rate arrives right on schedule, followed closely by the thick scent of arousal.

Stiles's body tenses, and he tries to scramble away. Derek clamps his arm around him to keep him still.

This sends Stiles into babble mode. "Wait. Is it torture and humiliate Stiles time now? Did I miss a memo? Because you get that I'm sixteen, right? I'm not going to say the 'v' word, but it's also a factor. And this, right here, figures prominently in my sexy dream times. Being in bed with someone! Not with you! Okay, not exclusively with you. It's kind of a wide-open field, actually. _Sixteen_. That's what I'm saying here."

"Sleep."

"Okay, that? Not a realistic expectation." Derek starts to count down again. "You can't snap your fingers at me and think I'm just going to—to—"

Stiles is out like a light by the time Derek makes it to three.

He snuffles and burrows nearer, and it occurs to Derek that this is the closest he's been to another person since—in a long time. He has no idea why it's Stiles that he's decided to let in, even if it's only grudgingly, inch by inch. He just knows that he feels remarkably content with his arm going to sleep beneath Stiles's body and a spot of drool forming on his shirt.

It will probably end in disaster. Things usually do for him. He feels resigned about that, just as long as it doesn't end in disaster for Stiles. That's why tomorrow at the top of Derek's To Do list will be: _kill goblins very, very dead_.

His eyes start to droop, suddenly heavy. He had intended to stay awake and stand guard, but werewolves do need to sleep eventually. What he told Stiles goes for him too: he's sharper when he's rested. Besides, he'll sense if there's any threat long before it arrives. They're safe.

He pulls Stiles closer and sleeps.


End file.
